“They provided me a bedroll and a spot in their thatched hut. And when I had a peek at myself in a shard of reflective glass I busted out crying. I about died, is what happened.
“I was later told by a doctor that I had suffered a stroke. This doctor’s counsel was given at a roadhouse, and while he later confessed to being unlicensed and I never received a proper examination, his reasoning has always struck me as sound.
“Anyway, the village family prayed over my body and treated me with a strange green liquid, served in a wooden bowl. I drank the mixture and vomited profusely, but when I woke my erection had finally been resolved and I no longer twitched. The village elders assembled, and while they were glad I was on the mend they asked that I leave in the morning. Apparently there was some talk that I was with the devil. Con el Diablo. This was six months before I returned home and met your mother.”
I opened my eyes and looked down at Portis, who looked up at me and smiled.
“Margaritaville,” he said.
My knees had gone to sand and I slumped forward and hugged him. I sobbed as the burn turned back to a throb and echoed out.
Afterward, Portis wrapped my feet in a blanket and lifted me onto the cot.
“It still hurt,” I said. “But I appreciated the story.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “I didn’t even have to make much of that one up.”
“I could have done without the erection detail.”
“That was no detail,” he said. “Trust me. That right there was the feature presentation.”
“I take it you didn’t find gold?”
“The gold remains buried.”
“What happened to Henderson?”
“He disappeared into a puff of peyote smoke. I never saw him again, and there are days I wonder if he ever existed at all.”
I arched my toes gently and made myself a promise that I would save up some cash for a proper pair of boots and get myself some good wool socks. I promised I would never play so fast and loose with their fate.
Meanwhile, Jenna was still asleep in the papoose and I liked lying there beside her, in the warm and the quiet.
“My sister always says babies are tougher than they look,” I said. “That they’re tougher then we are.”
“This one is,” said Portis. “I can’t say about other babies, but we got us a trooper here. I like this Jenna. I’ll admit to it.”
“She’s so quiet, though. Maybe too quiet. Like she’s sick or something. Like she’s too tired to cry.”
“She was hollering pretty good there a bit ago,” he said. “When you changed out her diaper.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess she was.”
“She’s eating and she don’t seem to have a fever,” Portis said. “She’s alert. When you get worried about a baby is when their eyes go glassy.”
“I thought you didn’t know much about babies.”
“I don’t,” he said. “I know about glassy eyes.”
I put my hand to her forehead and she did not feel hot or clammy. There was still color in her cheeks and she slept with her lips parted and her head turned. Her chest rose with breath and her tiny hands were relaxed into half fists at her side. She was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.
“She’s so beautiful,” I said.
“She’s a bright light shining,” Portis said.
“She must be so tired.”
“That makes three of us.”
“I don’t feel too badly,” I said.
“You need to rest before we go for the truck.”
“I can walk.”
“You think you can,” he said. “But right now you need to rest. Even if it’s only for a bit, to let this storm pass. Then we’ll walk out.”
“I don’t like just sitting here,” I said. “It makes me nervous.”
“There’s no place safer in these hills,” he said. “There’s nobody even knows about this shanty. I don’t even bother with the padlock.”
I heard Portis shift on his bucket. I heard the flick of his lighter and his deep draw on a cigarette.
“How is your sister?” he said.
“She’s great,” I said.
“And the baby boy?”
“Perfect.”
“I’d like to meet the little sailor one day. Bring him up here to the hills and take him fishing.”
“He’d love it,” I said.
“We need to do it while he’s young,” he said. “Before he becomes corrupted by the Pacific Northwest and their generally sissified ways.”
“You don’t know a thing about Portland,” I said.
“And for good reason,” Portis said.
“I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck,” I said.
“I might take a rest myself,” he said.
“Okay,” I said. “But we can’t let ourselves sleep too long.”
“I don’t ever do,” he said. “My demons won’t allow it.”
“Portis,” I said. “Will you do me one favor and let me see your leg? You might be frostbit yourself.”
“My leg is fine,” he said.
“Then bring it here.”
He labored to get off the bucket and walked over. He extended his leg and I could see that the cut was deep but that the skin was not otherwise discolored and that Portis was probably right—just a bad gash.
“Will you wrap it at least?”